by Jay Begler
A number of months into their marriage, Isabella said to Morales, “You know, your parents and my parents are dropping hints about us having children.”
“Tell me about it. It’s the subject of conversation every time I speak to them.”
“Hector, to be honest with you, while I’m up to going through the whole in-vitro process, I’m afraid. I don’t want a child who looks like me.”
“I fully understand, Isabella. You know, I would have also gone along with the process and given you carte blanche on the choice of an appropriate surrogate, but in reality, I don’t want to have children.” His remark surprised and relieved her. Two weeks later, Isabella heard a knock on her bedroom door. Morales had set a carton on the floor. It held two of the cutest puppies Isabella ever saw. She was laughing and asked, “What are they?
“They are Rottweilers. These will be our children.” Morales thought she heard him, but wasn’t sure since Isabella was already too busy cuddling and kissing them.
Twelve
•
Love Is Reciprocal Torture
As a limousine drove Morales from Hong Kong International Airport to the center of the city and he gained his first sighting of its robust skyline, Morales realized that except for this trip he had never traveled alone. Isabella and/or Chula accompanied him on all business trips and his killing team accompanied him on what the group euphemistically called, “intervention trips.” It was a relief being away from the rigors of the Cartel and even from Chula and Isabella, despite his affection for them. The trip, however, was strictly business. Morales was to purchase up to five billion dollars’ worth of a wide range of technology-based products from a Chinese Cartel.
The Chinese Cartel was not part of Aztec, but each considered the other an “affiliate.” They had a long-term cooperative arrangement that worked well and profitably for both of them. A slight man in his late sixties wearing an expensive bespoke suit and identified only as “Mr. Chan,” and two well-dressed men, who Morales correctly assumed were his bodyguards, stood by the door of a conference room in the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. A man identified as a security expert swept the room for bugs, and hidden cameras, nodded and left. Mr. Chan addressed Morales in an upper crust British accent.
“Hector, I’m very pleased to meet you. Your father–in- law and I go back many years. He is a man I admire a great deal. And your wife, Isabella…” He stopped and smiled as if he told a small joke to himself. “I was going to say that she is one of the smartest people I know, but I think that would be inaccurate. She is the smartest person I know. The study that you both provided t us on America’s anti-drug technology is a remarkable piece of work. Brilliant.”
“Do you think you can help us?”
“It’s an interesting challenge, but the answer is yes. I gave your report to our technology group and they tell me we can provide you with certain alloys for your tunnels and electronics, which will give false readings to US drones trying to penetrate the ground to find your tunnels. But have you considered the possibility of using drones yourself?”
“We have and have even experimented with them, but no matter how sophisticated they are, the drones are always destroyed by the American’s anti-drone lasers. Radar picks up our drones and lasers from satellites destroys them in seconds. When I was a young boy, all of this was in comic books and movies; now, it’s a reality.”
“Yes, I heard about that, but your drones don’t have stealth technology. The drones we can supply to you would be virtually invisible to the American’s radar systems and fly so high as to elude sightings from the ground. They can swoop down from 55,000 feet to the ground in less than twenty seconds and get back to that altitude in less than thirty seconds. If your American counterparts have all-terrain vehicles, they can unload the contents in minutes and the drone can take off again. These drones are big and each can hold three hundred kilos of drugs. Assuming that they travel within thirty miles from the border, you can make at least four drops a day. The drones are quite expensive, fifty million dollars, but they are very high-tech machines. But do the math, 1200 kilos a day. I think you’ll break even very quickly.”
Morales, excited, said. “Any other products you can offer?”
Chan nodded to one of his men, who handed him a photograph of a large submarine and said. “This is a refurbished submarine. Not nuclear, but it works quite well. It holds up to ten tons of drugs. It is not for sale, but you can rent it for about two million dollars a trip. We supply the crew. Given the amount of product you can carry, we believe that you will make a profit on your first trip.
They spoke for over six hours, both feeling a sense of great satisfaction with what they considered a very productive meeting. Chan nodded towards a man who had been keeping tabs on potential purchases and handed him an iPad which held his calculations. Chan scanned the calculations and said, “I’ll round it off at three billion dollars, delivery to begin in three weeks. This includes six of our technicians. Morales said, “Agreed,” and handed one of Chan’s men a card bearing a Swiss bank account number and several passwords. The man entered these on his laptop and in less than a minute said to Chan, “Done. The transfer is complete.” Morales sent a cryptic text to Isabella who fully understood its meaning: “Hope all is well. I bought a bust of Chairman Mao on Hollywood Street; well worth the three dollars.”
Chan said, “Hector, I like the way you do business. If you are free, please join me and my wife for dinner this evening?”
In the chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce taking him to an area called “The Peak,”, noted for having some of the most expensive real estate in the world, with prices exceeding $20,000 per square foot on average, Morales sent a second text, “Some wonderful restaurants in HK,” meaning that all went well at his meeting.
Chan’s house, one of the priciest in Hong Kong and once featured in Architectural Digest, was worth eighty -five million dollars. Chan’s wife, a tall and beautiful Eurasian woman, a former Ford Agency model, greeted Morales at the door. She escorted him through a long hallway to a garden that overlooked most of Hong Kong. A raven-haired woman sat with her back to him, but rose when she heard footsteps. Her looks stunned him, particularly her violet eyes. The last woman with violet eyes he had seen was Rebecca. But he wasn’t thinking of Rebecca at that moment. His total focus was on the woman.
Chan’s wife said, “Hector, meet Marcella. I have to take a call. I’ll leave you in Marcella’s expert hands.”
She was about thirty, close to his height, with perfect olive skin. “I’m Marcella Proust. And no, I’m not related to Marcel. I assume you know Marcel Proust.”
He looked straight into her eyes and said, “Love is a reciprocal torture.”
“What?”
“Proust, In Search of Lost Time.”
She touched his arm, and he felt a surge of warmth reminiscent of the first time that Rebecca touched him. He wondered, “What is it about a woman touching my arm?”
“I know. How do you know that?”
“Back in college, Columbia, they were selling t-shirts with sayings from French novelists. Love is Reciprocal Torture was the most popular. I liked it so much, I read the novel. Frankly, I liked the line better than the novel.”
“I’m impressed; a literate and, from what I hear, a dynamic entrepreneur.” She had a broad smile on her face and with her hand still on his arm said, “One man I dated, a hedge fund manager who I never saw again, thought Marcel Proust played for the Yankees. With confidence he said to me, “Oh yes, he’s part of the farm team. Double-a ball.’ I never saw him again.”
“That was a wise choice, Marcella, and a devastating loss for your hedge fund friend.”
“So, tell me, Hector was love ever reciprocal torture for you?”
He thought about this. He had an image of the last time he saw Rebecca. “Well, I think it was one sided torture, with me being the one tortured.”
Chan’s wife approached. “That was a call from my husband, who apologizes. He wi
ll be about forty minutes late. I need to check in with our chef. Marcella, why don’t you show Hector around? The back terrace is a wonderful place to have cocktails and some hors-d’oeuvres.”
Marcella took Morales by the hand and led him to a large terrace, which provided an expansive view of the city and Hong Kong harbor. “I rank this as the best view of Hong Kong” Morales liked the feel of her warm hand and felt aroused by Marcella’s touch and by her perfume. “Are you wearing My Sin?”
His question shocked her. “My God. I think you might be the only one in Hong Kong, maybe in all of China, or maybe in all of Asia who knows that name and recognizes the fragrance. How on earth do you know that?”
“You know they say, whoever they are, that scent is the sense that is the strongest. It was a perfume worn by an old flame from two lifetimes ago. She was the torturer.”
She followed up in a flirtatious way, “Maybe the name will be prophetic.” It was that same flirtatious, humorous fashion that had first drawn him to Rebecca. Inexplicably, because there was no physical resemblance, she evoked Rebecca. Because of that, he felt drawn to her.
An orange late afternoon sun reflected off of the buildings nearby. “It is wonderful” he said. And then without even thinking about it, he continued, “and so are you.” Recovering, he said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”
She kissed him lightly on the lips. “I never mind complements, particularly when they are sincere.” He wanted more, but she pulled away and in her lawyer like way, as if questioning a witness, asked, “So tell me Hector about your reciprocal love torture.”
“You really want to hear about my first great lost teenage love.”
“Yes. Lost teenage love is very romantic, Proustian.”
Morales hadn’t spoken about Rebecca in years and was glad that the memories of her no longer hurt. He didn’t hold back and gave a half hour abridged version, ending with his last encounter with Rebecca at the Apple store. A waiter appeared holding two flutes of champagne, and a tray of Peking duck buns and various dumplings. She raised her glass and said, “Let’s drink to our friend, Mr. Proust.”
“Perfect. But I’d like to get to know more about you.”
“Later” she whispered.
It was probably a good thing that they did not sit next to each other. This way they could concentrate on their hosts. Marcella, a trial lawyer and partner in a powerful Washington DC law firm, was preparing Chan for a deposition in connection with an oil freighter deal gone bad, causing Chan to lose sixty million dollars. A lawsuit against an American company followed. They set the deposition for the following day until Marcella received a phone call, stepped away from the table, and returned beaming. “They agreed to settle. Offered us the total amount we demanded in our complaint, plus interest, plus attorney’s fees.”
Chan exclaimed, “Excellent work Marcella, you are a genius.” While Marcella was an excellent attorney, she was far from a genius. Settlement in this case was precipitated by the CEO of the defendant receiving an envelope containing photos of himself having sex with young boys. The photos were all expertly altered via Photoshop by Chula’s blackmail group, but of such high quality that the CEO knew that any denial on his part would be fruitless. A brief note accompanied the photos: “To be released to the press in 24 hours.” The CEO called his lawyers immediately.
Chan made a mental note to thank the person at the Cartel responsible for the blackmail play and said quietly to Morales, “You fellows do outstanding work.”
“In this case, the head of our blackmail group is a woman, a former CIA operative.
Chan replied, “This modern world we live in.”
Marcella said, “This means I have a free day in Hong Kong.”
“Me too,” Morales lied.
“Well, you should use my car and my driver who can give you a tour of Hong Kong,”
The chauffeured car took Marcella and Morales, back to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. When they were back in her hotel room, presumably to have a drink, Marcella asked, “Do you really have a day free?”
“Not really, but I had this feeling that I wanted to spend a full day with you.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Hector.” Touching turned to kissing, which turned to hands finding their way to each of their bodies.
Up to this evening, he had followed the ground rules set from before their marriage. He could make love, but not love. Cheating for Morales would be giving himself over emotionally to another woman, but this is what he was doing now. From the moment he had seen Marcella and for the first time since his encounters with Rebecca, he felt an undercurrent of strong romantic feelings. After they made love and Marcella lay sleeping next to him, he wondered why he should feel this way about her. He thought that the answer might be that they were just two temporary lovers in an exotic city who, within 48 hours, would never see each other again.
“My God,” he thought, “we’re fireflies.” He hadn’t used that term since his summer with Rebecca.
They wandered through the underground passages in Kowloon, walked along the harbor, and bought small plastic busts of Mao at a flea market on Hollywood Street. At high tea at the famed Peninsula Hotel, he spoke more of his love affair and youthful longing for Rebecca. At the end, she said, “It sounds to me like you became obsessed with her.” He agreed with her observation. That night they made love three times before falling into a dead sleep in each other’s arms.
En route to the airport in the limo provided by Mr. Chan, they sat quietly, sad that their romantic adventure was over. She turned to him and said, “Hector, I have an interesting question. What do you think your life would have been like if Rebecca hadn’t left you, and after graduate school you stayed with her in New York, eventually married her, worked, say for J.P. Morgan, and lived the New York semi-wealthy life style?”
“I never thought of that. It’s an interesting question” He paused as if reflecting and, at the speed of light, Morales visualized a series of images, each a nano-second: they were cutting a wedding cake, walking through a snowbound central park, reading the Sunday Times, dining with friends in a little restaurant in Chinatown, walking two children to school, sitting under an umbrella on the beach in the Hamptons. He stopped as if having an epiphany. “I suppose I would have been happy.” They sat in silence for the rest of the ride. When it was time for them to go their separate ways, they embraced passionately and then parted. Morales watched Marcella as she walked through her boarding gate and disappeared from his life.
As his flight reached cruising altitude, he thought about his answer to Marcella’s question. He would have been happy! “I would have been happy. Shit, I would have been happy.” For the first time in over a decade, a feeling of melancholy coursed through him. He wondered about Rebecca, what she looked like as she slid past 35 and whether she was happy. Then, sipping a mimosa, said to himself resolutely, “Get over it!”
Thirteen
•
The Death of the
Marlboro Man
It happened so quickly, Chula learning that he had less than six months to live, that his overriding emotion was surprise. He tried to treat his impending death as casually as possible, thinking irrationally that by trivializing it, it would not happen. Introducing the subject to Isabella and Morales, he said, “One day you’re focusing on business, the next day, the end of your existence.”
For someone who was one of the most powerful person in the world, his journey to the end of his life was rather conventional. It began with some coughing and shortness of breath and a growing pain in his chest, which Chula attributed to anything but cancer. Before she died, Adrianna constantly warned him about the perils of his chain- smoking ways, but he only scoffed at these entreaties. In his mind, he was invincible. He was the Marlboro Man. Ironically, he would now die like Darrell Winfield, the actor that played him, who also died of lung cancer.
Chula was not immune to illness or the inevitable aches and pain
s brought on by growing older. “When you pass 65,” he joked to an entourage at a birthday party, “you always have some kind of pain. If there is no pain, it means that it’s moving to a new location.” He had a three-week illness rule. Chula would not see a doctor unless his symptoms lasted over three weeks. Invariably, this rule worked, and he never saw a doctor except for his annual checkups. When three weeks had passed and the coughing had not diminished, but became more pronounced, he extended his wait and see rule by another three weeks. He became annoyed when Isabella pressed him to consult his doctor. His anger, however, was more a reflection of fear. Just like everyone else, he was not immune to fear though he pretended otherwise. Fear just needed the right stimulus to manifest itself. Deep down, he knew something was seriously wrong, but out of dread, refused to face up to it.
He began to wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air. At these times, he tried to calm himself by taking a cigarette, only to find he could no longer smoke. When he coughed up globules of blood and fear turned to terror, he called his doctor. As soon as Chula explained his symptoms over the phone, his doctor replied in a voice that reflected serious concern, “You’d better come down to the hospital immediately.” The examination and ultimate diagnosis followed a prescribed protocol with the inevitable awful diagnosis: “I’m afraid you have late-stage lung cancer. And, to be honest, there is very little you we can do for you.”